


being the operative word

by andnowforyaya



Category: B.A.P, K-pop
Genre: ??? - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Cheating, Drugs, Emotional Constipation, Gen, Guns, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Multi, True Love, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, assholes, definitely, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 08:22:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3242828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andnowforyaya/pseuds/andnowforyaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daehyun goes rogue three days into Himchan’s holiday break because he’s an asshole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	being the operative word

Himchan is just climbing into his luxury jacuzzi-style bathtub filled with water slick from lavender-scented soap, rising up to his ankles and then his calves and then his torso, when his work-issued disposable phone sitting atop a neatly folded pile of fluffy white towels begins to buzz.

He debates answering it. He’s got five nights and six days in the penthouse in a hotel in Luxembourg where his fellow guests (might) include royalty and diplomats and he’s had this suite booked since last year and he deserves a break -- he _deserves_ a break. He doesn’t even know why he brought his phone in here except probably to fulfill some perverted sense of loyalty and the need to prove his work ethic.

His phone stops ringing and then starts again and Himchan groans, water sloshing as he traverses the frankly ridiculous size of the jacuzzi tub to reach the little buzzing menace.

Yongguk is on the other end.

Well, of course he’s on the other end. He’s the only other person who has this number and he’s _only_ supposed to use it for emergencies. Which should not include texts asking if Himchan thinks ramen is a suitable dinner for Christmas Eve (“It isn’t.”), or if he thinks the coming winter storm will stall the planes departing Incheon International Airport (“I’m not a meteorologist, Bbang. I don’t know. Yes. Plan accordingly.”), or if Himchan thinks yellow is a good color on him (“No. _Absolutely not._ You will look like a canary.”).

“Sup, Bbang?” Himchan says affectionately and not at all threateningly into his phone.

Yongguk’s words come out all in a rush, low and mumbly and apologetic.

Himchan frowns, propping his elbows on the side of the tub. “Let me get this straight.”

“Ha,” he hears Junhong from somewhere near Yongguk. “ _Straight_.”

“You’re like twelve, Junhong,” Himchan snaps. “Can’t you have your sexual identity crisis and deal with your latent homosexual feelings for older men elsewhere? Yongguk, I thought this was a private conversation.”

Yongguk sighs while Junhong protests, “I’m not -- Jesus, Himchan. First of all, I’m a grown man. Second, you’re supposed to say, _haha yeah good one Junhong._ You didn’t have to go and hurt my _feelings_.”

“I’m on vacation,” Himchan says, clipped, thinking about what would happen if he just accidentally dropped his phone into the water. Probably nothing. Probably a horrible static-ringing noise would erupt in Yongguk’s ear and he’d make that face he makes when he’s surprised and displeased with you because you’ve somehow burned all of his suits but managed to save his record collection in a small apartment fire. Not that Himchan’s ever done anything like that. “And you’re bothering me.”

“Guys,” Yongguk says with the air of a father coming home to a gaggle of boisterous children. “Please. Focus.”

“As I was saying,” Himchan says loudly. “Let me get this straight: You want me to leave my ridiculously comfortable, expensive, private, _expensive_ holiday getaway for which I paid _a lot of money_ and traipse over to the Bahamas where you think Daehyun -- golden boy Daehyun, I-smile-and-targets-shoot-themselves-for-me Daehyun, cutie-with-a-bootie Daehyun--”

“ _Himchan_ ,” Yongguk interjects, probably gritting his teeth. Junhong is cackling behind him.

“You want me to leave my expensive, well-earned holiday personal time to find his ass in the Bahamas and bring him home? So that you can -- what -- spank him and tell him he’s been a bad boy?”

Yongguk sighs again and it comes through as static. Himchan imitates him.

“This is serious, Himchan. The last contact we had with him was over a week ago. He’s supposed to check in with me every 48 hours. The last communication we had was an encrypted email that read: _I don’t know if I can do this. Sorry._ Something could have happened to him.”

Himchan doesn’t say anything for a while. The water laps at his sides and suddenly the smell of lavender isn’t as comforting as he thought it would be. “Maybe he was just, like, hanging out at the beach drinking Mai Tai’s and then he passed out for...three days.”

“Himchan,” Yongguk says. He’s got his boss-voice on. “I need you on the next flight to the Bahamas. We’ll arrange for travel to the island and hotel he was at last. And a room. Junhong will be sure it’s stocked.”

“I better be getting an _amazing_ holiday bonus,” Himchan mumbles into the phone, scowling.

“Just,” Yongguk says. “Find him and bring him home.”

.

Himchan laments the king-sized bed he could be sleeping in right now in Luxembourg, the fine wine he could be ordering, the parade of dishes prepared just for him, because Yongguk has set him up in a general single with no view of the ocean and Junhong’s idea of ‘stocked’ is a duffel bag with some Kevlar fittings, a roll-out mat of assorted knives ranging from needle-thin blades to something that looks like a blend of a machete and a hammer-head shark, a Glock and a silencer, and a couple of extra pre-loaded magazines and a few boxes of bullets. Upon closer inspection, Junhong has also included a little stack of stickie tracers.

("Adhesive Portable Homing Devices," Junhong tells him, red-cheeked for having to repeat himself multiple times.

"Stickie tracers," Himchan says.

Behind him, testing a laser-fitted pen designed to cut through metal and glass, Daehyun laughs.)

Himchan gets no cool spy pens, no tear-gas bombs, no tranqs -- nothing _fun_ (Okay, but the huge knife is kind of up there on the fun scale). He checks the Glock, though, and keeps it tucked into a hidden holster against the small of his back and brings a couple of knives, too. Just in case.

The next part is boring. Information gathering and learning routines. If this is where Daehyun was last seen, then Himchan needs to find a lead -- anyone who’s caught a glimpse of him, heard of him. Anyone who's heard anything suspicious, really.

As it is, he finds himself at the hotel bar a few nights in a row.

He has his reasons, okay. Reason number one being that Yongguk is a scrooge and Himchan’s going to put every drink he drinks on the company’s card to make up for the shit accommodations Yongguk booked for him.

Reason number two being that Himchan thinks that, a little blurredly on his third fruity cocktail of the evening, if there’s anywhere Daehyun will miraculously show up it’s going to be at the bar. His love of drink is only outshadowed by his love of love. Somehow, Daehyun always managed to find time to chase skirts and coattails while on his operations, to get screwed without screwing anything up.

 _Manages._ Himchan frowns. He’s still thinking in the present tense here. Or trying to. Seven days is remarkably long radio silence on Daehyun’s end, though. Despite the 48-hour mandatory checks, Daehyun usually bothers Yongguk on the phone two or three times a day, just to chat or tease or comment on some strange thing he saw or compliment himself on a job well-done.

Himchan knows it’s because this job is lonely. It’s hard being someone else all the time.

He’s starting to get sentimental, and woozy. Maybe it’s the drink. The bartender waves in front of him. “Sir, can I get you another glass?”

Himchan tries to say no but all that comes out is a mumble and a hiccup. He makes a hand motion he hopes the bartender will know means _put it on my tab_ and starts to stand, but he’s really feeling woozy, now. The bar is spinning, and when he puts his hand against it, the hard lacquered wood seems to curve under him like the surface of a waterbed.

“Woah,” someone says, and then there’s a shoulder slipping under his arm neatly, supporting his weight. Himchan’s head lolls back as he takes in the man’s blurry features. Himchan blinks but his vision only doubles, his fingers tingling.

“What the fuck,” he slurs, angry that someone has even _thought_ about drugging him. Also that he hadn't noticed. Well, the drink _had_ been a bit sweeter than he was accustomed to, but he'd pinned that on the bartender's heavy hand.

“Let’s get you up to your room,” the man says, and his shoulders are familiar, as is the color of his chestnut brown hair, his golden skin. Large eyes and plush lips. That smirk.

“What the fuck,” Himchan slurs again. “Daehyun, you utter shit.” He slumps against him, solid and warm, and Daehyun laughs.

“You should hear yourself. No one can understand you right now.”

“That’s because you _drugged_ me,” Himchan tries to say. Something dings. He thinks maybe they’re in an elevator.

Daehyun shrugs and Himchan’s balance goes with it. The other man is practically dragging Himchan back to what he presumes is his room, except the air is suddenly saltier, and the sky is dark above them, the sounds of the hotel fading away.

So, not his room.

A door slams.

A car.

“Honestly?” Daehyun is saying, his face fading in and out of focus. Himchan thinks he’s in Daehyun’s lap. His head hurts. The road goes bump-bump-bump. “I thought your tolerance was better than this? I mean I know it’s basically poison -- but. But I didn’t put in more than I would for myself, you know? And look at you -- you’re practically asleep already.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” Himchan tries to say, coupled with a feeble attempt to make a fist and smash it into Daehyun’s cheek.

“I know,” Daehyun says, a little sadly, the corners of his lips turning down. “So I thought I’d try to get to you first.”

The car stops. The world shifts. Himchan feels consciousness slipping away from him.

Daehyun says, “You’re going to wake up with a minor hangover on a big-ass cruise in a nice single room headed to New York City. Take a few days. Enjoy it. Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation, anyway?”

Then everything goes dark.

.

New York City this time of year is too cold to be enjoyable, and Himchan wants to take the first flight out of JFK to wherever Daehyun is headed next as soon as possible.

It also doesn’t help that he used to _love_ this city, right up until a joint operation with Daehyun blacklisted him from every good thing the city had to offer. He still remembers the look on the young woman’s face when the police were taking her away, his shoulders brushing his partner’s as they sat side by side in the back of an ambulance.

“You ever come back to this city,” she was shrieking, “you’ll be dead within the first ten steps you take! My father knows--” and the rest was drowned out behind the window of the police cruiser, but Himchan could imagine her words just fine.

“Independent Private Security Company?” the officer was asking them both. They were waiting for Bbang to get them out of the situation. “Does that give you some kind of leeway…?”

“We’re secret agents -- of course it does!” Daehyun had announced. Himchan gaped at him. He was slowly starting to realize he'd be doing a lot of that. Daehyun was audacious and loud and annoyingly competent, a bit of a nag and raised his eyebrows at you smug and charming whenever you questioned his plans. Daehyun held his hand up for a high-five. “Woo!”

Himchan still shakes his head at the memory. It had taken Bbang many hours of paperwork and much-hated socializing to clear up that mess.

"What do you mean, he got away?" Junhong sounds miffed over the phone. He never likes to work from home.

"He escaped my clutches," Himchan says, packing quickly. He has a locker at Grand Central Station stocked with essentials: a duffel bag, a couple of IDs to choose from, stacks of cash, a loaded handgun, a new phone, and a change of clothes. As soon as Himchan had gotten off the ship he’d come here to load up and changed into the extra set of jeans. He kept on his white undershirt and threw the zip-up hoodie from the duffel on over it, stuffing his other shirt into the bag. People criss-cross their paths all around him, leaving him in a bubble of his own conversation. “Bolted. Left the building. Made a dash for it--”

“Shut up,” Junhong growls. “Shut up, shut up.”

“I slipped a stickie tracer into his pants.”

“Gross,” Junhong says.

“Not _like that_.”

“It’s an Adhesive Portable Homing Device. APHD. It’s not that hard.”

“Yeah, I’m not calling it that,” Himchan tells him, digging into the duffel and withdrawing with his fingers around a pair of vintage sunglasses. “Nice.” He slings the duffel over his shoulder. Over the phone, he hears Junhong making satisfying clicking noises against the keys of his laptop.

“Okay,” Junhong says, a bit out of breath. It’s a habit of his, not breathing while doing complicated tech work. Himchan often tells him it’ll be the death of him. “According to the APHD, Daehyun’s pants are in Atlanta. I’ll send you coordinates.”

“Why the fuck is he in Atlanta?” Himchan asks.

“Why is he running away, is what I want to know,” Junhong says. “Do you think he did something? I thought for sure this was going to be a rescue mission.”

“Daehyun never makes things easy,” Himchan grumbles. It’s true. Daehyun never makes things easy _for anyone else._ But everything seems to come easy to him -- target practice, chemistry, flirting.

(“Chemistry is just baking, but with dangerous substances!” Daehyun protests.

“When have you ever baked anything in your life,” Himchan grouses, pulling at his blood-speckled latex gloves. They make snapping noises as the material releases his skin. He and Daehyun are in Jongup’s cozy studio. Jongup is working on his third PhD and comes to their aid whenever they need lab work done for a hefty fee. Right now, Daehyun is bleeding out on his sofa and his lips are turning a frightening shade of blue. Lab work.

“Stop squirming,” Jongup says calmly. “I believe the bullet was laced with a rapidly effective anticoagulant.”

“I’m going to die,” Daehyun says grimly.

“You shouldn’t have pushed me out of the way,” Himchan says instead of acknowledging that statement and the way it makes his stomach shrink inside of him.

“I’m too pretty to die. Himchan, will you miss me when I’m gone?” Daehyun whispers, and then he howls when Jongup pushes something into the bullet hole that's spilling blood from his arm. “What the hell, Jongup!?”

“Get a hold of yourself,” Jongup says. “You’re not going to die.”)

Himchan slides the sunglasses onto his face and turns to look into the crowd milling around the large station. Then he takes them off. Sunglasses make him look suspicious. Instead, he draws the hood up over his head. “Run a search. What was his target’s name again? Look into Yoo Youngwon. I want to know what Youngwon’s been up to lately. Locations, suspicious purchases, suspicious people. Maybe he has something on Daehyun.”

“Do you think he’s in trouble?”

Himchan closes the door to his locker and doesn’t answer for a long moment. “Just look into it, Junhong. I’ll call you for an update when I’m at the airport.”

.

(Himchan swirls his red wine in his glass and pays attention to the way the smooth liquid coats the sides. It smells like dark chocolate and cherries. He is somewhere in Italy and his ears are still ringing on and off from the explosion at the bank. The fingers of his left hand are taped tightly together and immobile.

“Is it any good?” Daehyun asks him quietly, sliding into the empty spot next to him at the bar. He is wearing black-rimmed glasses and a thick grey scarf tucked into a peacoat, which provides adequate cover for the twin Berettas Himchan knows Daehyun prefers to carry at his sides. Himchan keeps his Glock tucked into a hidden holster at his back; the weapon is slimmer and smaller and -- Himchan insists -- a better handgun for the industry.

“You’re supposed to be halfway to Asia by now,” Himchan says, knocking back the rest of the wine like it is cheap whiskey.

“I missed my flight,” Daehyun offers cheekily. “How are your fingers?”

“They’ll heal,” Himchan says.

He puts the wine glass down gently and the barman swoops it up almost immediately after. Daehyun steps forward and his hip bumps against Himchan’s knee, and when he turns to face him, Daehyun slides into the space between his legs.

“What do you want?” It comes out grumpier and more sullen than Himchan intended. Daehyun has a way about him that breaks Himchan down into the man he was before the military training and the missions. It frustrates him.

Daehyun grins, his eyes dark and shadowed in the red lighting of the bar. “Isn’t it obvious?” he asks.)

.

Junhong forwards him the trail of Yoo Youngwon’s recent purchases. Over the past few days, his credit card reflects:

2014-28-12 -- Starbucks -- Nassau, Bahamas  
2014-28-12 -- Cafe Martinique -- Nassau, Bahamas  
2014-29-12 -- ATM withdrawal -- Nassau, Bahamas  
2014-29-12 -- Silver Airways -- Nassau, Bahamas  
2014-30-12 -- Starbucks -- Nassau International Airport, Bahamas  
2014-30-12 -- Starbucks -- Nassau International Airport, Bahamas  
2014-30-12 - ATM withdrawal -- Miami International Airport, Florida  
2014-30-12 -- Dunkin Donuts -- Miami International Airport, Florida  
2014-30-12 -- Caribou Coffee -- Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, GA  
2015-01-01 -- The Fox Theatre -- Atlanta, GA

Nothing too suspicious there, just the multiple purchases of coffee (that Himchan can’t really speak on, since he suffers a similar caffeine problem), and the large ATM withdrawals.

“That’s all he’s got?” Himchan asks into his phone while he’s being crowded into his seat near the back of the plane. He bought the earliest flight from New York City to Atlanta, and beggars can’t be choosers.

“That’s the last of it,” Junhong says. “He’s probably sticking to cash, now. But he’s in Atlanta. And Daehyun’s in Atlanta. Maybe Daehyun is following him. Maybe he knows something we don’t?”

“Why does he always have to be so dramatic,” Himchan grumbles, taking out his sunglasses again and sticking them onto his face. “What was it his email said again? I can’t do this anymore? He couldn’t just outright tell us, of course. All this cloak-and-dagger bullshit.”

Junhong pauses for breath, and when he speaks again, he sounds angry. “Well, you _are_ secret agents, kind of. He takes his job very seriously.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Himchan says dismissively.

“So I don’t know why he’d pull a stunt like this unless it were _very_ important.”

The pilot makes an announcement over the plane’s internal speaker system, and Himchan sinks lower into his lumpy seat. One of the flight attendants stalks over, her lips pursed, and makes flapping motions at him to get him to stop talking on his phone.

“Whatever,” Himchan says. “I’m hanging up. I still feel like someone tried to drown me. Never let Jongup teach Daehyun about his cocktails ever again. I think the drugs he slipped me are still swimming around in my system.”

The person in the seat next to his makes a scandalized face, and Himchan resists the urge to stick his tongue out at him.

.

Atlanta is a sprawling network of highways and hotspots, a bit muggy even in the middle of winter, and clouded over with the exhaust from the tailpipes of cars. Himchan books a room in a hotel close to Daehyun’s coordinates and heads there straight from the airport. Daehyun’s pants have landed him in Atlanta’s small but formidable historic theatre district, whose center is the Fox Theatre, and he hardly believes it is a coincidence that Yoo Youngwon’s last purchase on his card was at the Fox Theatre. Now that he knows Daehyun is running, he also knows to lay low so he won't be spotted by the rogue, and he spends a day checking out the area and looking for any signs of his fellow operative or of Youngwon.

He might also spend the day eating copious amounts of barbecue from the place down the street, but that’s neither here nor there.

He hardly believes his luck when, late that evening and from the window of his rented room on the tenth floor of Hotel Indigo, he sees Yoo Youngwon strut out of the building across the street, The Georgian Terrace Hotel, with a small retinue of personal guards and a very pretty lady on his arm.

Youngwon looks snazzy in a suit, and she is all done up in a red dress, heels, and trim denim jacket. They get into a car that’s waiting for them by the curb, and two of the guards in the retinue join them. The others wait with their hands clasped behind them and legs shoulders’ width apart, military-ready, until the car has turned the corner.

Himchan grits his teeth against the urge to follow. His mission is not Yoo Youngwon. His mission is Jung Daehyun.

He imagines a situation where he might catch Daehyun unawares, perhaps in the early morning as Daehyun is stepping out somewhere for a cup of over-sweetened, over-creamed coffee. He’d slide into the seat opposite Daehyun when he sits, smooth as velvet, and stick the needle-point of a tranquilizer into Daehyun’s thigh. He’d watch Daehyun’s face change as his mind caught up to the situation: shock, disbelief, a bit of anger, and then finally the tired droop of his eyelids as the fast-acting sedative curled through his veins. Maybe then Himchan would pretend to be a concerned citizen -- “Oh my god, this man has fainted!” -- and call for an ambulance. He’d tell the EMTs he was Daehyun’s brother so he could ride with them. Then, once on the road, he’d commandeer the vehicle.

Himchan smiles to himself as his imagination gets the better of him. Daehyun would be sleeping peacefully on a cot and Himchan would be rewarded for bringing him home. He imagines the way Daehyun’s eyelashes would fan over his cheeks, the pout of his lips even in sleep, the way his pulse would flutter at his throat under soft, thin skin--

Himchan scowls, shaking his head to clear his thoughts, and is just about to turn away from the window when something catches his eye.

Daehyun is walking out of The Georgian Terrace with that unmistakable swagger of his in jeans and a black shirt and dusty brown leather jacket, followed closely by a man who would look exactly like Yoo Youngwon if Yoo Youngwon had been born with a slight pucker to his lips and eyes that lifted at the outer corners like a cat’s. Daehyun stops, looking left and right, as the Youngwon-ish person hip checks him on the sidewalk. They share a laugh, and then, as Himchan glares at the scene outside his window, Daehyun slings an arm around the other man’s shoulders and they turn to stroll down the block, the street lights just illuminating as they pass.

Himchan fumbles for his phone, pressing a speed dial button as he brings it up to his ear. Junhong answers on the first ring.

“What?”

“Give me all the information you have on Yoo Youngwon’s family and close associates.”

“So Youngwon _does_ have something on Dae--”

“No,” Himchan snaps, even as he grabs a couple of items from the dresser of his hotel room and prepares to follow the pair. “I just saw Daehyun walk out of the same hotel as Youngwon, not one concern on his mind, fit as a fuckin’ fiddle.”

Junhong exhales with a disappointed whistle. “Sending,” he says.

.

(Manila, Philippines. It is summer here and winter at home. By the water, the air is never still, so the first thing Himchan does after they are done is take down the wind chimes at the windows. His arm shakes when he lifts it above his shoulder from strain. He has to drag a chair over as Daehyun watches him from the mussed sheets on the bed.

“I like them,” Daehyun says.

“I don’t,” Himchan says.

“Come back and lie down,” Daehyun beseeches, his voice scratchy and worn. “Stop messin’ around.”

Daehyun has a pale scar bisecting the areola of his left nipple from a knife wound. The pinkie of his right hand can’t fully straighten because that finger never healed properly. He scans for all possible exits before engaging with anyone, and his trust is hard-won. He’s broken his ribs more times than Himchan can count on two hands. Himchan, too, has amassed scars from every mission, every location, every betrayal. A curl of raised skin over his sternum, stripes over his back, a sliver of silver skin under his chin.

“I should go,” he tells him, stepping off the chair and padding back over to the bed. He tossed his clothes to the floor in a hurry before. Now, he stoops over to pick them up, quickly putting them on and not meeting Daehyun’s eyes.

“We just got here,” Daehyun complains. “Stay a bit. We don’t have to tell Yongguk.”

“No. I’m not doing this again with you.”

Daehyun does not stop him as he packs, which is a quick task. He lays there with hooded eyes and Himchan does not look at him. Daehyun clears his throat. Himchan pauses.

“We did a good job,” Daehyun says, as Himchan is walking out the door.)

.

The man with Daehyun is Yoo Youngjae, Youngwon’s brother and youngest son of the Yoo family. As the youngest, it seems Youngjae has been afforded a life sheltered from a typical Yoo upbringing. While his brother has multiple visits to jail on his record, Youngjae is clean. Youngjae went to a good school, graduated with honors, and visits his family three times a year: once during the summer when he can, once during the fall, and once during winter. Youngjae is a game developer. He likes photography, basketball, taking long walks, and embarrassing his friends in public.

Youngjae might as well be holding Daehyun’s hand with how closely he’s sidled up to him on the sidewalk, and Himchan can’t help the gagging noise he makes when he sees.

He ducks into a doorway behind the pair when Daehyun stops and turns, nose high in the air like he can smell something amiss. He hears Youngjae say, “What’s up?”

“I have a funny feeling,” Daehyun says.

“It was probably those cookies you ate in the lobby, you know,” Youngjae says. “I kept telling you -- you can’t know how long those have _actually_ been sitting there.”

“Maybe I’m just being paranoid.”

They keep walking, and Himchan keeps following, all the way to some local independent theater in the basement of a bar. After Daehyun and Youngjae enter with their tickets, Himchan stands in line at the box office, purchasing his own quickly and slipping in after them.

The usher by the door hands him a program as he spots Daehyun in the crowd heading slowly toward the front of the small theater. The stage is intimate and brightly lit, and even with Himchan’s seats near the back of the room it feels too close for his comfort.

He hopes there won’t be any audience interaction.

For most of the play -- a one man production that Himchan soundly ignores in favor of keeping an eye on Daehyun and Youngjae -- he cranes his neck and scowls in their direction. They sit close, and every once in a while, Youngjae leans over to whisper something into Daehyun’s ear. Daehyun whispers something in return, and then they _stare_ at each other like deer at headlights just before impact, and Himchan’s gut burns with an unfamiliar feeling.

It’s jealousy, he thinks, but he tells himself it is probably gas. He and Daehyun messed around a few times, but that is all. Every time, it had been after a successfully completed mission, and they were both a little high still on adrenaline and accomplishment, and it helped that they were both attractive and raring to go. And flexible.

“You remind me of this woman in Singapore,” Daehyun used to tell him, or, “this man in Berlin.” The city and gender changed, but the message was the same. Whatever it was they were doing together, Daehyun was doing it with someone else somewhere else, too.

He wonders if Daehyun has told Youngjae if he reminds him of anybody, but catches them sharing another deer-in-headlights stare and thinks, probably not.

.

When the play ends, Himchan sneaks out the door to linger in the lobby, standing around the corner where the bathroom line is starting to form and pretending to read all the posters while he waits for Daehyun and Youngjae to exit.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

As the playhouse clears out, Himchan recognizes Daehyun’s laughter, sharp and high and loud, and turns to peer beyond the wall. He catches Daehyun’s and Youngjae’s silhouettes between the open double doors, the sky an inky but translucent blue before them.

He follows at a distance, but close enough to see the way Youngjae bites his lips when he turns to say something to Daehyun. Close enough to see the way Daehyun’s eyes crinkle up at the corners as he smiles at the other man. Close enough to see the way Youngjae brings his hand up and taps Daehyun’s crooked elbow and then slips it there in the bend like a clingy, fat koala.

Okay, that’s a bit unfair.

Koalas are very cute.

Himchan keeps them in his sights and imagines the sort of conversation they might be having. Perhaps about the play. He thought it was boring, himself, and is a bit surprised Daehyun is still conscious after that snooze fest.

Daehyun never struck him as the type to appreciate fine art (or at least art attempting to be fine).

“He’s adopting another personality to get close to Youngjae and, ultimately, his target,” he mutters aloud as he’s held up at a road crossing. The path they are taking leads back to the hotel. Based on what he’s read about Youngjae, he thinks the young Yoo must be a homebody. They will probably wind up at the hotel bar for a couple of drinks before calling it a night and heading back to their rooms. Or room. Singular.

In front of him, Youngjae slips his hand out from the crook of Daehyun’s elbow and behind him, over his ass and into the back pocket of his jeans. Himchan’s jaw clenches as Daehyun responds by winding his arm around Youngjae’s waist, and they walk together like that, practically spooning each other on the street, out in public, for everyone to see.

They stop in front of the hotel as Himchan predicted they would, but Daehyun motions for Youngjae to head inside. Surprised, Himchan brings his hood up and turns around, leaning against the exterior of the building. The night is peaceful and a bit on the warm side, so people are out and about and giving him a little extra cover. He brings out his phone and pretends to mess with it, activating a sound amplifier Junhong installed onto it. He quickly takes out his earbuds and plugs in so that he can hear their conversation with more clarity.

“I’m just gonna stay out for a smoke,” Daehyun says.

“I thought you didn’t,” Youngjae says. He sounds disappointed. Himchan’s shoulders tense, because Daehyun doesn’t smoke. He’s too vain to, has had nightmares about yellow teeth and fingernails. Plus, he’s a mic hog at karaoke with the company, and smoking would jeopardize that position.

“Just the one,” Daehyun says. “I promise.”

The conversation doesn’t continue. Himchan takes a surreptitious peak over his shoulder and sees that Youngjae is gone and Daehyun is there, head tilted with a cigarette between his lips, holding the flame of a lighter to the tip.

He doesn’t watch the fire catch, but can hear the fizzle of smoke, and he prepares himself to approach Daehyun again.

When he looks back, the other operative is gone.

“Shit,” Himchan says.

.

Himchan walks at a brisk pace, hips swaying, in the only direction Daehyun could have run: away from him.

As he scans the sidewalks he breaks into a run, cursing himself for letting Daehyun get away. His record with this mission isn’t up to his usual standard. For a moment, he considers whether personal feelings are clouding his usual efficiency and judgment.

Daehyun’s _thing_ with Youngjae (and, oh, it is definitely a thing) intrigues him mostly because he can’t believe it is real. He must be playing an angle. People like them -- people with multiple passports from different countries, people with safe houses and secret contacts -- don’t have sweet, stable relationships.

Well, Himchan certainly doesn’t.

And he’s never known Daehyun to have one, either.

Movement catches the corner of his eye as he comes across a break in the buildings and he ducks just as Daehyun’s fist swings past where Himchan’s temple was a moment ago. This part is all training. Exhale as you punch, grit against an answering slam of knuckles against your ribs. Block, counter, block, counter.

Daehyun is fast, but Himchan is military. They exchange quick blows, but when Daehyun overcompensates on a left cross, Himchan steps to the side and hits him hard in the solar plexus with a short hook. It makes Daehyun choke on air and that little pause gives Himchan enough time to slam his fist across Daehyun’s pretty face, and Daehyun goes down.

“Now,” Himchan says, breathing heavily, “let’s talk.”

Which is when searing pain lances through his upper arm. Himchan screams more out of surprise than hurt, glancing down at the injury and immediately pressing it to stop the bleeding. He turns, and Youngjae has the window rolled down in a plain black sedan, pointing at Himchan with a gun through the window.

“Sorry,” Youngjae says. Himchan looks a little closer, and notices Youngjae’s hand is shaking.

From the ground, Daehyun grits, “I told you to wait for me!”

“You were taking too long!” Youngjae says immediately. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step away from my body guard. Because I need him to come with me. And I’ve got a gun.”

“Gladly,” Himchan says, angry, but he knows better than to test someone who fired a warning shot into his arm. He steps away, and Daehyun scrambles to the car, going around to get in on the passenger’s side. Before he climbs in, he gives Himchan a long, searching glance. “This is a good thing,” is all he says.

The tires squeal against pavement as they peel away. Himchan runs out after it, hoping to get the license plate, or at least the make of the car for Junhong to track.

He can’t believe his luck. So close, and Youngjae had to show up. Practically growling, Himchan stomps out into the road, one hand pressed hard against his wound and his other raised with his company identification card in his palm. The next car that approaches slows to a stop in front of him, and the driver raises his arms like he’s being held up at the bank.

“Get out,” Himchan says, nodding his head and striding over. “I need this car.”

“What are you -- the police?” The guy gets out, confused but giving Himchan wide berth.

“No,” Himchan says. He gets in and shuts the door and flashes his card again. “I’m cooler and more exclusive.”

.

“A black Nissan Altima? Are you serious? I thought the Yoo family would all be rollin’ in the Benzies.”

“Okay,” Himchan says to Junhong on speaker, fighting a migraine and attempting to wrap his arm with fabric torn from the bottom of his shirt using one hand and his teeth. “Never say ‘Benzies’ ever again. Also, can you hurry it up?”

Junhong sighs. “What was the license again?”

Himchan prattles it off, but before he can finish, Junhong says, “Got ‘em. They’re on Peachtree passing 10th. You can cut them off--”

“Got it.”

Junhong is silent on the other end as Himchan presses his foot against the gas. Junhong gasps a few times like he’s drawing in breath to speak, but doesn’t say anything.

“What is it?” Himchan grits out.

“Nothing. Just. Are you -- are you going to get him, this time?”

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” The car speeds up and Himchan makes a sharp right to get back onto Peachtree.

“It just means -- it just means Daehyun is awfully good at slipping away.”

“You think I’m _letting_ him?” The engine revs. Himchan doesn’t let up on the gas pedal.

“That’s not what I said,” Junhong says. “But okay, that’s what I’m implying.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Well, given your history--”

“I’m done with this conversation.”

“--it might not even be a conscious thing!” Junhong finishes quickly. Himchan ends the call and notices he got blood on the interior of the car, and he sends a silent apology to the person who offered the vehicle up to him, since he will probably never see his car again.

He can hear the gravel crunching under the wheels, the purr of the engine. Himchan focuses completely on the chase and not at all on figuring out what kind of relationship Daehyun and Youngjae might have for there to be determined and co-conspired escape plans. When his phone rings again, Himchan swipes his finger brusquely against the screen to answer it. “What do you want now?”

“Himchan.”

His fingers curl tight over the wheel. Blood pulses through his wound at his arm. In that single word, he can hear how tired Daehyun is.

“How did you get this number.”

“Let me -- and Youngjae -- go. We just want out. Stop following me.”

“I can’t do that,” Himchan hisses.

“Yes, you can. Just -- stop the car. Turn around. Let me go.”

“Why are you running, Daehyun? What happened to make you run?” He speeds up Peachtree and merges around the car in front of him. He can see their black Nissan, just a couple of cars ahead, moving right in order to get onto the highway.

“I fell in love,” Daehyun says. On the other end comes the sound of something like a clap. “Ow! Fuck you, Youngjae.”

Youngjae’s voice emerges then, distant and tinny. “You hang up right now, I swear to god. I need you to navigate! Or drive! I can’t do both.”

“You’re an idiot,” Himchan tells him.

Daehyun breathes heavily into the phone, and Himchan gains on them. “I’m probably an idiot, but I love him, and he’s in danger, so I’m going to--”

Glass shatters and Himchan hears the echo of it through the receiver. Stunned, Himchan watches as Youngjae swerves and regains control, barely safe from crashing into another car.

“--Holy fuck! Are you shooting at us?” Daehyun screeches in the phone.

“No, of course not--”

“Hang up the phone!”

“Look out--” The car swerves again, and the line goes dead. Himchan speeds up and scans the area, reaching into his holster for his Glock and taking it out, ready. To the left, he spots an unmarked black car with its windows rolling up just as the Nissan drifts up onto the curb and stalls. The back window shatters, a shot from above, and Himchan pulls up close, nearly parallel with the other car, and throws his passenger door open.

Youngjae’s head lolls to the side over his shoulders, eyes dazed, as blood trickles from a small wound at his temple. He must have bashed his head against the window. Behind him, Daehyun catches Himchan’s eyes and tilts his chin that he understands. With a great push, he manages to get Youngjae’s door open and to throw Youngjae mostly into the passenger seat of Himchan’s car, and Himchan drags him up into the rest of it.

A bullet dings off the roof. A quick scan of the skyline reveals a spot of shiny reflection in the corner of one building, and Himchan aims at that with his gun, firing off twice. The shiny spot disappears. Daehyun clambers into the backseat as another bullet hits the roof, this time piercing through and embedding itself into the middle seat where Daehyun’s hand just was.

“Go,” Daehyun pleads. “Lose them.”

“Where?”

Youngjae groans in the front seat. “Athens…”

“ _Greece_?”

Daehyun shakes his head as Himchan slams his foot onto the gas pedal. “No. He has an apartment outside Athens, Georgia. It’s unlisted. I can direct us.”

.

By the time they pull into a picturesque apartment complex in northern Georgia where the closest shopping center is a Walmart thirty minutes away, Youngjae is asleep, the gas tank is nearly empty, and Himchan’s arm is stiff. He parks in the handicapped space because he can’t be assed and sits back in his seat, breathing out for what seems like the first time since he lost their tail.

“This is not what I expected,” Himchan says.

Daehyun moves in the backseat, making the car bounce, and the door clicks open. “Let’s go inside and talk.”

They manage between the both of them to get Youngjae up the stairs, and Himchan sucks on his tongue when he watches Daehyun pull out a set of keys to unlock the security door, and then the door into Youngjae’s apartment.

It is a clean, sparsely furnished apartment, with standard art on the walls that were probably hanging when the apartment was being shown. Daehyun locks the door behind them, and they move Youngjae into one of the bedrooms, furnished with a queen-sized bed, a dresser, and not much else. When Himchan opens one of the drawers of the dresser out of curiosity, he finds a couple of pairs of neatly folded underwear, two t-shirts, and an extra pair of jeans.

“This is really just a secret hide-away, huh?”

He turns, and Daehyun is seated on the bed next to Youngjae’s sleeping form, his features soft and concerned, his fingers at Youngjae’s darkened temple. Himchan focuses back on the dresser, feeling like an intruder.

“He has a couple of places like this. I know about this one and one other. We’ll spend the night here, and figure out what we’re doing in the morning.”

“I need to bring you in--”

“Just give it a night, Himchan,” Daehyun asks of him.

Himchan doesn’t answer him. He stalks out of the room and into the kitchen, muttering about first aid. When he finds a kit in the cabinet underneath the sink, he goes back and gives Daehyun a the supplies. “You promised me a talk,” he says.

“I did.” Daehyun takes a couple of things -- gauze and antiseptic cream and medical tape.

“I’m going to wait in the living room with my Glock out. You come out when you’re done, or I track you down and shoot you in the ankle, got it?”

Daehyun snickers, and Himchan scowls. “You said _with my Glock out_.”

Himchan feels that lines are now permanently etched into his forehead from glowering. “Your maturity is astounding.”

“I’ll come out,” Daehyun says. “And we’ll talk. And I’ll fix up that arm of yours, too.”

Himchan doesn’t have to wait long. As promised, he keeps his Glock on the coffee table, and when Daehyun emerges from the bedroom it’s reflex that has him reaching for it, fingers curved around the grip.

“There’s another room,” Daehyun says. He doesn’t close Youngjae’s door all the way, but just enough to give him some semblance of privacy. When he starts to pad across the hardwood floors with the first aid materials in hand, Himchan hesitates. “I’m not going to do anything or go anywhere,” Daehyun says over his shoulder, shaking his head at Himchan in sympathy. “I wouldn’t leave him.”

Himchan rolls his stiff shoulder and follows, grunting.

The second bedroom is as large as the first, and similarly furnished.

“You can take this room,” Daehyun says.

“And let you creep away in the middle of the night? I don’t think so.”

“I’m not going to creep away!” Daehyun insists, but Himchan only narrows his eyes at him, hissing when Daehyun purposefully pushes against his bad arm to get him to sit on the bed. “I need to clean this.”

He strips his upper body and refuses when Daehyun tells him to lie down, keeping his Glock close. Then he nearly bites through his tongue when Daehyun rubs alcohol over the wound to clean it. Now, clear of his jacket and shirt, he can see where the bullet bit through his skin and muscle, skimming it like a knife carving out a slice of warm butter. His head buzzes as Daehyun tapes over it. “Let’s talk. What happened to you?” Himchan asks fuzzily.

“I told you.”

“You’re a professional. I don’t believe you.”

Daehyun looks up from where he is ripping the medical tape, his lips parted. Himchan wonders briefly if that body underneath the bloodied jacket and dirtied jeans is everything he remembers.

“I’ve been on this job for over six months. It was -- involved. I got close to people. Maybe to people I shouldn’t have. I got close to Youngjae, and he got close to me.”

“When you talk to Yongguk, is that what you’re going to tell him?”

“I’m not going to talk to Yongguk,” Daehyun says, eyes locking with Himchan’s.

“You are,” Himchan promises. “Because I’m taking you in and completing my mission.”

“I can’t help you--”

“I’m not asking for your help, Daehyun.”

Daehyun bites into his plump lower lip, and Himchan watches the drag of his teeth against the tender muscle there as he releases it, throat going dry. His stomach tightens.

“I love him,” Daehyun says, and in his eyes, Himchan can see that he believes it.

It makes him angry.

“You don’t love him; you don’t love anyone. People like us don’t get to fall in love. We have no attachments. Those are the rules, Daehyun.”

“Well, I don’t care for rules.”

Himchan has his Glock pressed up under Daehyun’s chin and Daehyun flat on the bed in half a second, his knee pressed dangerously close to Daehyun’s crotch between his thighs. Daehyun’s breath hitches, but he only swallows, and the bob of his Adam’s apple pushes against the metal barrel. “You don’t _care_ for rules,” Himchan repeats. “Of course you fucking don’t.”

“Himchan--”

“Shut up. Your disregard for rules nearly got my arm blown off in Lisbon. I had to go in for an emergency extraction in Paris. Your disregard for rules costs us money, and time, and you’re a complete and utter _cock._ ”

Daehyun swallows again, breathing hard, and Himchan pushes the barrel against his pulse until Daehyun has to tilt his chin up to keep from choking. He catches the dark look Daehyun gives him, the way his eyes roam the broad, pale expanse of his chest. Then he slides his gun away from them on the mattress, and leans forward to crush his lips against Daehyun’s.

“Barcelona,” Himchan mutters when he pulls back for breath and Daehyun folds up to chase him. “Ottawa. _Ottawa,_ of all places.”

“Are we really doing this again?” Daehyun gasps, already reaching for the clasp on Himchan’s belt.

“Shut up. _Shut up._ You make me crazy.”

“You chase me wherever I go--” Daehyun takes off his jacket and his shirt and then it’s his smooth golden skin on display, marred in some places from scarring.

Himchan scratches his fingernails over Daehyun’s nipple, swallowing the gasp Daehyun makes between his own lips. “I always catch you, you fuck. Maybe one day I’ll--”

“--don’t say it. Don’t fucking say it.”

He doesn’t say it, whatever it is. Himchan carves out a space for himself -- perhaps next to Youngjae -- in Daehyun’s chest, and clings there until his fingers grow numb from the effort. They match each other’s pushes and shoves, teeth against teeth and then teeth against skin. Their pelvic bones slot against each other. Daehyun is sharp and Himchan is merciless, dragging out the feeling he wants from Daehyun without much regard for the other man at all; fortunate, because that is how Daehyun likes it.

They don’t bother with the covers because Himchan knows all of Daehyun’s dirty little secrets, knows the twisted little parts of him he suffocates with his own smile, and when they are through with each other, they drift to sleep for only a moment, sweaty and breathless and sticky, but then it is morning, and Youngjae is gone.

They find a note on his pillow, cold but dented with the imprint of where he’d lain.

It is written on a small, crumpled receipt, with pen marks so deep they nearly gouge through the thin material. Daehyun reads it silently, his lips moving to shape each word.

_do not look for me. love you. --y_

.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i mean, ideally this will be a series.
> 
> [writing](andnowforyaya.tumblr.com) || [twitter](https://twitter.com/andnowforyaya)


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